Some kind of monster
by Isolith
Summary: AU. DARK/HORROR. Ensemble. There's an agglomeration of hidden serial killers within the LAPD.


_Summary: _AU. DARK/HORROR. There's an agglomeration of hidden serial killers within the LAPD.

_Warning:_ This is an exploration of 'what if the whole ensemble is secretly serial killers'_._ Sooooo…. if you feel too attached to any of the characters don't read this.

_A/N:_ *evil grin* Well, this was fun. I blame the rain and the absence of the sun. I've forgotten how it looks that weird orange glob in the sky. Sigh.

…

**SOME KIND OF MONSTER**

…

It is a black sphere of oblivion devouring him whole; skin, teeth, muscles and bones disintegrating and he is left with the feeling of something past ripe. It is at its core bitter and yet sweet; fiery like flames blazing high into the night sky, all-consuming and fuelled by air. It is a taste not unlike soot that follows in its wake, a dense feeling of airways being obstructed, of charcoal on the tip of his tongue.

Anger is the composite of a black sun; burning and burning; devouring and devouring. Anger has the power of a giant sun running through him, energy bound to manifest itself in violence. There is the feeling of pain when his fists connect, the feeling of vertigo that surges through him, overwhelming in that singularity he always seeks.

It is a ravage.

Bones being crushed underneath his hands, blood rushing and painting everything in a color he finds illuminating. There is always a small snip of precision and strategy to his attack even in among the frenzy. Even in anger there is clarity amidst the feeling of insanity. He lets go and yet experience has seeped into his mind; he knows what he is doing.

It strikes him with swift force, the smell of blood in the air and the flavor of adrenaline in his mouth, accompanied by that high on life feeling that reverberates through his body not unlike electricity.

His body aches; muscles crying from exertion.

His knuckles are raw, skin grated and blood having begun to slightly crust, flakes slipping off and falling down onto the grey asphalt. His shirt is soaked through with sweat, marred with blood that looks dark in the night and even more dried into the fabric of his shirt is the scent of the whiskey he spilled earlier.

Rage always has an aftertaste that is as addictive as alcohol.

Andy is on the ground, on all fours, heaving for breath. There are garbage containers next to him, the smell of rotten food too sweet in the night air. The alley is badly-lit, shadows playing out amongst him, in between the narrow streets. Then there is the body, unmoving and limbs at odd angles, lying on the asphalt underneath him.

He grimaces. He might have broken his left hand, the sting of pain vivid when he moves his fingers, the instability of putting weight on it. It does not bother him much; he knows what to do after all. He knows how long it takes to heal seeing it has become a small routine by now.

Yet he quickly gets to his feet and he goes through the motion of dumping the body into one of the containers. The guy was heavy built and the body is even heavier now that there is nothing left but dead weight. With the use of only one hand it takes longer than he had imagined.

The body lands in among several large black trash bags, sinking down between them till all that is visible is a half torso and the top of the head. Andy finds two trash bags from another container and shifts them to the one with the body in it, covering the last of the dead guy. It is a matter of coming back then; he needs to be sure there is absolutely no evidence left. No blood and no skin cells that will come back positive if the body is found. Not that it is a likely possibility. Andy has found garbage containers with bodies are rarely if ever discovered. No, they are taken with the garbage truck no one the wiser and they end up at the disposal sites where they slowly rot with the rest of the trash, seeping into the mull and mush, leaving behind bones that hide in the bottom. No one ventures into those uncharted places and it is practical a black hole, consuming everything that goes to the place; a seamless disguise for murder.

No, now he needs a shower. A tumbler of whiskey and a shower will do the trick. Later on he can get his equipment and wipe the body down. At least there are no security cameras Andy thinks as he slips into another dark alley, wondering if he will make it to his car without bumping into anyone.

A shower, whiskey and god damn, he could use a good fuck.

…

Curiosity; it leads strange places.

Mike Tao likes the image of a beating heart. The muscle ecstatic with life, pumping furiously, rigorously and without fail. The beat-to-beat rhythm, the automaticity of nature. He likes to stare at it, likes to feel it under his hands.

The road that leads to the image he likes that as well. He is not cruel; he anesthetizes his subjects, more comfortable with the mute, asleep body. The rib cutter heavy in his hands, the scalpel light and feathery but sharp.

There is a rhythm to his incisions he likes to equate with the beat of a heart; the hearts of human bodies varies as much as an individual varies.

He studies the anatomy, scrutiny down to the smallest vein and artery, the way they might differ in location. It fascinates him.

He pulls a glove off and dives into the open chest cavity, his eyes on the exposed beating organ. His hand covers it, not all but a large proportion. He holds it lightly – the feel of muscle working, the feel of life in his hands is like slipping into a soothing warm bath. He slowly squeezes, his eyes now on the monitor the body is hooked up to. He likes to watch the frantic state of a heart in distress; he squeezes till the screen becomes frenzied, oscillations in the rhythm of ventricular distress. Fibrillation.

There is something strange about warm slick blood that turns lukewarm and then cold and sticky; something about that red shade against pale skin, the exposed chest that fills up with rising blood when he severs the heart from its home, from its large blood vessels. Something curious about death the instant it happens; something curious about the stages in between and what comes after.

There's something even more tranquil about the organ in his hands, on the cutting board, in preparation with marinade, sliced and ready for the pan.

The human heart, fascinating on its own and savory on his taste buds.

…

It is his personal studio, enclaved and secured, hidden and secret; just for him. Buzz Watson enjoys the lightning, enjoys the preparations that comes with it – the stillness of being the only one left that uses up the oxygen of the room. The shine of his monitors, the small noise when a computer starts one of its fans. The capture of life, the capture of death on his screens, the ability to press pause and enlarge, the ability to go back in time and to go forward. The knowledge that it is his creation.

It's about the angle and the lightning, the décor – it's about the details. And mostly it is about the silence; Buzz needs the vacuum of privacy and secrecy.

This time his movements are slow. Last time there had been no time to take it slow. Last time it had been hurry and bustle, the fear of someone finding him surging through him, keeping him on edge. He likes that as well.

Buzz likes to vary it. The details turn out similar in the end but the road that takes him there; he likes its heterogeneity, likes changing its rhythm. There is something exhilarating about standing inside a room with his intended victim and outside the room the world is bustling, hurrying about with no clue about what he is doing. They rarely keep records at these places and old people never remember much. It suits Buzz perfectly.

The disguise of a camera in the top button of his shirt and he can walk wherever he wants; film everything without worrying about someone seeing him with a camera. He finds it is better this way; it is less of an intrusion and it becomes more real, more authentic when the subject has no idea he is filming them, when they have no idea they are slowly slipping into a dreamless sleep there is no waking up from.

A simple injection and he can sit still by their bedside and watch it; sometimes he holds their hands, his index finger on the wrist. The feeling of that unsteady pulse disappearing beneath his touch.

The view to death slowly emerging in front of him. It is about the right amount of dosage, the right amount of light that slips in from heavy curtains, the sterile and white bed sheets of the room – the frail look of white hair, wrinkled skin that crumbles together with a last breath. There is something strange about the eyes; it is hard to catch on his film the impression it makes. He has yet to capture it the way he sees it with his own eyes. It always looks different when he comes back to his studio and looks through his footage.

What he sees with his own eyes, the feeling that resides in the room of life slowly slipping away, light slowly disappearing from the vapid irises of the old; it is difficult to capture in pixels.

…

The trick to disposal is to never leave a single shred of evidence behind; a technique perfected over the many last decades of his life and Louis Provenza still finds himself under the guise of contemplating whether he should vary it or not; dispose of her some other way. Yet he always ends up in his backyard however stupid it may seem. Her pale skin is covered by water that has long since turned cold, the foam that is slowly evaporating as well. The scent still in the air, breezy and flowery. Her hair is wet, dark tendrils that have a soft texture when he threads his fingers through it, curling one strand around his index finger.

He takes the plug out and the water level slowly starts to fall. It leaves behind the soapy foam on her skin, glistening in the bathroom light.

He is too attached to his backyard to find another venue for disposal. It is the core of his existence, the very little detail that he likens to exist within him alongside that dark prowling creature that made him like this, the garden as much tended to as everything else; flowers that bloom and blossom, the mull beneath enriched.

It is a process not unlike mystery and magic when human cells are devoured by chemistry and the passing of time, leaving in its wake a substance that makes his roses unique in color and strength.

He curls a finger around a wet lock of hair again, this time a scissor easily slicing through. A little keepsake however cliché it is; there is something different about doing it yourself and then reading about others doing it. It is special and his very own gateway to memoirs and dreams.

Her skin is cold to touch yet there is something soft about it. It reminds him of marble statues, their expression likewise caught in a second and kept there for eternity. Trapped in an existence of marble, in one emotion that is hard to distinguish; it is exquisite in its own way.

Louie lights a candle before he goes in search of his equipment. Gloves, a plastic bag or two, a shovel and patience will do it. That and he brings along a bottle of bourbon, knowing the taste will savor into his taste buds and nerve endings, will transfer into him and he can languor in this feeling for a little bit longer. It is the trick of savoring every little detail.

…

There is something tranquil about the forest, about nature when you are all alone out in the open air nothing but your own breaths and your own heart and that of nature thrumming and buzzing alongside. Blending in and assimilating into the environment, the scent of earth damp and tangy, the scent of grass even more vibrant and the air carrying that small note of nature that is inexplicable.

Perched on a small ridge in between long straws of grass that cover her lying on her stomach, weight on her elbows, her eyes are on a far-away hilltop. A small ridge up on a hill, the view over nature vast – hills rolling up and down covered in a sheet of trees, different kind of shades and the sun pokes through the cover of clouds. Amy Sykes enjoys the quiet; the solitude that sweeps through her. The vision that becomes magnified when she looks through her sniper visor, suddenly focusing on the trunk of a three far away, the ridges in the bark vivid.

Birds chirp and the wind glides through three tops almost silently; she hears it though, feels its light caress across her skin.

She is hidden in among the grass like a hidden lioness, alert and poised, ready for adrenaline to surge through her and bring everything into utter bliss, into sharp contrast.

They always come trudging through the landscape, the noise they make an interruption that can be heard far in advance. They sometimes come in pairs, boisterous voices and cheerful; usually she leaves them and waits for that lone tracker that comes through the forest with less noise and whose demise can easily be ascribed to an accidental death. These parts are tricky and the trails can lead to landslides and the steep little rocky hills, why you can easily fall and break you neck. Eventually rescue will commence and look for the lost soul, searching with helicopters and crew on the ground. The missing body however, will be claimed by the raging river that sweeps not only big logs of trees but rocks far away into obscurity.

A clean shot and nature will once again be the only sound.

From her vantage point she has the view of a little trail that goes directly over the pass of the river, some twenty feet below. The current roars and water tumbles, white foam where the particles hit the underlying rocks. Anyone coming through this part and the force of the shot will push them over the edge and they will fall into the water. Amy can watch it all from far away. It has a quality of peace to it that she feels herself surrendering to.

…

It is about stealth and brute force. Even more importantly it is about blending in. It is something that suits him like a second skin, blending into the cement of the graffitied walls, blending in with the crowds of people and being able to pass as someone he is not. Julio Sanchez finds it is something that comes to him as easily as pulling the trigger and double tapping whoever he is after.

It is about planning and surveillance, about being welcomed into the tough groups and yet he cannot be recognized. The fine line of being accepted by a tight-knit group and yet not being noticed. He enjoys walking this line, the feeling of excitement inside his body.

It ends with a list. It ends with prowling through that list and slowly dismantling the group from the inside in such a fashion that the remaining members think it is the work of rival gang. It is a profound game Sanchez has perfected and yet the thrill never goes away. It's always inside of him, snarling and stretching its arms, longing for bloodshed.

Sometimes Sanchez feels it fluttering inside and he imagines it spreading its wings and soaring when he is pulling the trigger, imagines it's as excited as ever when his knife slips into skin and comes out blood red.

…

Sharon Raydor tightens her hold on the nylon, her eyes on the horrified eyes looking back at her; she smiles even if her hands feels like they are on fire, the nylon digging into her fingers with no mercy. Her arms leaden with exhaustion; strangling always surprises her with its magnitude, with the energy is takes. She always forgets the effort it takes – she never forgets to tie them up good beforehand though.

She can feel him struggling beneath her even if his hands are tied to the corners of the bed; she feels his knees in her back but they do not bother her. She's planted firmly on his lower abdomen, legs on either side of his middle and her hands holding onto the nylon hose she has around his neck.

The inevitably struggle, the flailing legs and the bruises on her lower back that will shine tomorrow; it is merely a part of the thrill.

The erection beneath her is warm against her groin, still making an impression even if death is on its way. The bulging eyes and that look in the depths of darkness – of fear – of surprise. The way his muscles stand out, strains with the last effort to escape, the handcuffs around his wrist leaving behind bruises. The bulge of his biceps, the bulge of his erection still there; her smile widens as she tightens the nylon.

The way that veins stand out in sharp contrast, the way that she feels his erratic pulse, the tense feeling in his chest as he struggles to breathe.

She keeps the nylon tight even when his body slackens, muscles slowly dying.

Life seeping from him alike blood from a wound and she feels it slip into her own body, thrumming with its vigor, with its intensity. It's not unlike savoring wine; the same way it goes to her head and coils in her spine, the way heat accumulates and intensifies throughout her body.

Sharon keeps the nylon tight around his neck even long after she is certain he is dead, savoring the image and the feeling even if her own arms tremble with exertion, even if she feels the lactic acid building up.

When she finally let's go of the nylon, she slides down and rests her head on his chest, the bare skin still warm but nothing underneath beating. She folds her arms out and lets them rest as well, her own breaths laced with something akin to arousal, rising and falling with urgency.

She drowns the rest of the wine in the bottle on the nightstand, savoring its bitter flavor as her eyes linger on the body.

She feels sated and tired, on the edge of slipping off to sleep. Even if her blood still sings, even if her heart still throbs with adrenaline.

Yet she knows what comes next and she does not mind; going through the routine of untying him, putting his clothes back on. Getting rid of him is almost tranquil to her. There is an order to it; a precision she likes after the whole chaos of the ordeal. She lingers in the contrast.

…


End file.
